


Tripwires

by supernoodle



Category: Edge of Tomorrow (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Bill is a cinnamon roll, Drift Compatibility, Gen, No proofreading, Noodle dives into another unknown fandom, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rita is v tired, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 18:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernoodle/pseuds/supernoodle
Summary: He introduces himself as William Cage, says that Operation Downfall was – would have been – his Verdun, and then settles into parade rest with the ghost of that smile still playing about the edges of his mouth.





	Tripwires

He introduces himself as William Cage, says that Operation Downfall was – would have been – his Verdun, and then settles into parade rest with the ghost of that smile still playing about the edges of his mouth.

He looks like the kind of man who'd try to schmooze her, digging for a fresh angle, a new quote with which to wrap up the war into a few neat words. She almost punches him on principle. It's his silence that saves him.

Instead, she drags him to the closest, seediest, most crowded pub she knows, shoves him into a stool with his back to the door, and demands his wallet to pay for drinks. 

He's compliant, smile sometimes breaking out, hands her the wallet like she isn't intending to order the most expensive thing on hand and rifle through it for an ID, some hint that he's lying to her – or maybe like he's expecting it.

Either way, by the time she's bulling her way back through the drunken crowd, he's moved to put his back to the wall and is scanning the room with practiced precision. He sees her, their eyes meeting, but he doesn't stop. She slips the last two twenties back into his wallet.

He toys with his drink, and she isn't stubborn enough to dull her senses by doing the opposite. After an hour of stuttering sentences on his end and clipped demands on hers, they've hardly drunk more than half a bottle between them. Otherwise she might have believed that she was hearing things, finally finding a solution to the choking isolation she fought as hard as the mimics, but she's never been that much of a lightweight. The story is too familiar, his backtracks and fidgeting and meandering a carbon copy of her in the days after she'd dropped out of the loop, and she clenches her fingers around the slick, cold surface of her bottle.

Laughter explodes in the middle of the room, a dark shape flailing as it tips and a clatter on the floor, and she jerks to the side, hand moving to the knife on her thigh. There's a man splayed out on the linoleum, face red, stool rolling beside him, not a mimic bursting through the ground – but Cage is already on his feet, scooping up his own seat, stalking towards the scene with the short, heavy footsteps needed to pilot an exosuit.

She launches herself over the table, catches the bottom rung of the stool as Cage swings in up, man on the floor yelping and patrons scattering, and yanks it back. He fights her, fast, brutal, every move she has thrown back at her, but she manages to twist the stool away from him, get in his face, and he comes back from the blank fighting place and looks at her like he's being crushed by the memories in his head.

She braces him, breaths, and lets go of her doubt. Time to let the walls come down, Rita Vrataski.

“Let's go somewhere quieter, yeah?” she says.

He steadies, gaze fixed on her, starts breathing a little easier. She waits for him to nod, and then they leave together, steps in perfect sync.


End file.
